


Parisienne Walkways

by someonestolemyshoes



Series: Parisienne Walkways [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, M/M, Public Sex, Roommates, Smut, again kind of?? in a public place at least, and this happened, and u like kagehina, figure skating, figure skating AU, go wild - Freeform, i watched a lot of yuzuru hanyu videos, idk man just if u like gay figure skaters, kags is a figure skater and hinata is Gay, kind of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: “I’ll prove it.” Hinata cocks his head. He swings a leg back up, pokes his toes at Kageyama’s chest. “Prove what?” Long, slender fingers curl around Hinata’s ankles and Kageyama squeezes, soft, gaze trained hard and steely on the wardrobe. “That I can be fun, too.”__Alternative title: Kageyama likes figure skating and Hinata is gay.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a combination of all the Yuri!!! on Ice hype, my undying love of Yuzuru Hanyu, and the simple fact that Kageyama would look Very Good skating (and Hinata would most definitely agree with me)

Kageyama Tobio is, quite possibly, the most mind-numbingly boring person Hinata has ever had the displeasure to encounter. Ever. In his entire life, which is like...nineteen years. Almost two decades, and he’s never met a single person more soul-suckingly _dull_ in nature than Kageyama.

It’s not just that he’s quiet—which he is—or that he’s frowny, and pouty, and largely angry about anything at anytime on any given day—which he also is. It’s more that he has...no atmosphere. He’s almost totally invisible in his soullessness, like a big black hole sucking the life out of the room during any moment that he and Hinata happen to share the same space.

 _Having a roommate will be fun_ , they’d said. _University will be the best time of your life_ , they’d said. _You’ll make your best friends in halls_ , they’d said. Hinata kicks his toes at the coffee table and huffs. They had lied, en masse, every single one of them.

Having a roommate, Hinata thinks dismally, is completely and utterly soul destroying.

Perhaps it’d be better if his roommate wasn’t the tallest, most grumpy, most _boring_ human on the planet. It might be better if Kageyama weren’t so... _Kageyama_. If he weren’t Kageyama at all.

Hinata thinks on all of this with Kageyama munching his cereal at the breakfast bar. Even the way he _eats_ is boring; he chews slowly, almost silently, with his mouth _closed_ and everything. Hinata can happily think on how utterly, thoroughly unremarkable he is as a person without the slightest bit of guilt because honestly, if he tried just a little harder, he could probably forget he was sitting there altogether.

Kageyama is just...a blank space. He is a slate—big and grey and completely void of anything substantial, except maybe anger, because he gets angry a _lot_.

It...sounds harsh, it does, thinking about him that way. It’s not as though Hinata hates him—he doesn’t, mostly because there’s nothing really to _hate_ —it’s just, there are many other people he would rather be spending his time with. Yachi, or Yamaguchi, or Kenma or Kuroo or maybe even _Tsukishima_ (because even if he’s the biggest asshole, ever, he at least has something of a personality).

There are merits, though, to having a roommate who can so easily sink into the background of everything, and that is that Hinata can and often does completely forget he is even there. Days will go by with Hinata remaining blissfully unaware of Kageyama’s existence.

It is during one of these days that Hinata comes to two sudden realisations: one) their room is largely disgusting, piled high with dirty laundry (mostly his) and dirty dishes (also mostly his) and two) Kageyama actually is not there.

He hasn't just blended with his desk chair or melted into his bedclothes, and he isn’t camouflaged against his bland wall or the ugly curtains or the threadbare carpet. He just...isn’t there.

“Kageyama?”

It isn’t often they talk—unless they’re arguing over something stupid one or the other has done, and even then it’s a lot more like shouting than talking—so Hinata isn’t particularly _offended_ by the silence that greets him. He is, however, confused. 

He is confused, because Kageyama is out of the flat, and it is a Saturday, and there are no classes and no logical reason a person as boring as Kageyama would bother to leave the room.

He pays particular attention for the rest of the day. In the time he spends sitting on the sofa, watching the door, listening for feet in the hallway or a key in the lock, he could be cleaning. He could do his laundry, or wash his dishes, and he would have time to scrub and hoover, too, if he wanted, but he does none of those things. He just sits, from noon until the sky grows dark, and waits for Kageyama to come back.

Kageyama doesn’t come back.

He isn’t back before the small hours, when Hinata’s eyes grow too heavy to keep waiting. And he isn’t back in the morning when Hinata finally wakes, though a small pile of laundry, two cups, and a single fork are missing from the collection in the bedroom.

Hinata checks everywhere Kageyama could reasonably be. He checks the bathroom, he checks the kitchen, he checks the gym, and the library, and when he returns to the flat he pats down the sofa and Kageyama’s bedclothes, in case he has reached some new, unknown level of boringness that allows him to fully disappear into his surroundings.

He doesn’t return that night, either, but by Monday morning he is back at his desk and one cup has returned, filled to the brim with milk (boring), and they have gained a plate holding two slices of plain toast (also boring) and Kageyama is bent over a book with lots and lots of numbers littering the pages. _Boring_.

“Where’ve you been all weekend?” He asks, and Kageyama starts like he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. He turns in his chair, face crumpled in his usual scowl.

“Work,” he says, “where I go every weekend.”

Oh. Hinata thinks he probably should have known this, considering they have been sharing the same room for like...four months now, but honestly, Kageyama has always come across as so fundamentally dull that Hinata never really considered the possibility that somewhere might want to hire him.

“Oh,” he says, for lack of anything better. Kageyama blinks over at him. God, even his _blink_ is boring. Hinata’s chest does that _thing_ it sometimes does, when Kageyama is being really, especially uninspiring; it goes tight, just for a moment, like it physically pains him to watch somebody so monotonous perform mundane tasks like blinking, or lying in bed listening to music, or drying their hair after a shower or any of the other million _boring_ things one can do in a day.

The air between them grows oppressively stale, like it always does when Hinata bothers trying to make conversation. Kageyama taps the end of his pen against his textbook.

“Where do you work?” Hinata tries—anything to break up some of the weird tension. Kageyama’s cheeks go a little pink—it’s the first non-boring colour Hinata has ever seen on him, except maybe the blue of his eyes (because sometimes, _sometimes_ , that is like...weirdly pretty), but most days that’s painfully boring too—and he turns his back.

“At my job.”

Hinata groans loud and flops back on his pillows.

“Gaaah, why do you have to be so _boring_ all the _time_ ,” he whines. If Kageyama cares, he doesn’t say anything. Hinata launches one of his smaller cushions so it sails the space between them and _thwaks_ against the back of Kageyama’s head.

There’s a moment, a long, quiet moment, where neither of them move. Kageyama’s back is rigid, and Hinata’s hand is still frozen where it released the cushion, and a very real sense of dread is slowly filling him like tar.

Kageyama turns slowly, bends to retrieve the cushion where it’s fallen behind his chair, and when he lifts his head his eyes are...weirdly hollow. It’s amazing, Hinata thinks, dragging his duvet a little closer for protection, how one person can look both boring and immeasurably threatening at the same time.

“Did you just,” Kageyama starts, lifting the cushion, “ _throw_ this at me?”

“No.”

Hinata’s chest does a weird little flutter. He’s...half excited, that Kageyama might _do_ something for once, something besides shouting, but all he does is stare. He stares, and he stares, and then he drops the cushion back to the floor, turns to his textbook, sips his milk and reads on.

* * *

A week goes by. On Tuesday, Kageyama is in the room when Hinata returns from classes. They have yet to pass a single word between them since Hinata launched his offensive, which is, incredibly, even less conversation than usual. They sit in the same space, and they actively ignore one another’s presence. This isn’t anything out of the ordinary; Hinata actively ignores Kageyama most days, and Kageyama more often than not reciprocates in kind. 

On Wednesday, Kageyama is not there.

Hinata waits up for him to come home, which _is_ out of the ordinary. Frankly, it’s out of the ordinary for Hinata to notice that he isn’t there in the first place. So often he simply assumes Kageyama is lurking, somewhere, unseen and unheard with his usual air of almost complete invisibility, but on Wednesday his absence is...well, it’s notable.

Which is _weird._

He must return some time in the night because he is sleeping when Hinata’s alarm goes off on Thursday. He sleeps like he usually does, flat on his back, with the blanket settled in a neat, boring line right across his shoulders.

He isn’t home on Thursday evening, either. Hinata is beginning to wonder which part of this is strange: that Kageyama isn’t there, or that Hinata is aware of his absence.

It’s in the small hours of Friday morning, when Kageyama _finally_ crawls into his bed, that Hinata comes up with a Plan.

* * *

On Saturday, Hinata wakes early—so early it’s still dark out with a big, pearly moon squeezing light through a gap in the curtains. He drags the first of many caffeinated cans from his bag and clicks the tab open; Kageyama sleeps on, even as Hinata curses the frothy fizz that bubbles over his knuckles and drops onto the bedding. 

Kageyama sleeps on through his first alarm, too. Hinata lies with the sheets dragged up to his nose. His eyes feel dry, wide and stinging; he’s tired, painfully so, but Kageyama must be waking up soon and Hinata reasons that he can nap later. After.

The second alarm wakes him. Even the way he _wakes_ is boring; he does a little stretch, doesn’t even make a noise when he yawns, and then he’s up, like getting out of bed is no problem at all. Hinata hides his face deeper in the bed clothes.  

Kageyama is one of those rare few who can shower in _minutes_. Hinata doesn’t understand it, really, because he has to take the time to sing a solid three songs, to get shampoo in his eyes, to rinse it out of his eyes, to get it in his eyes _again_ , to make puddles in his hands and splash them onto the tile and on top of all that he has to actually wash himself.

Kageyama dresses quickly, too. Dresses in the bedroom. Because he thinks Hinata is asleep.

Which he is not.

Kageyama has...no qualms, dropping his towel, and Hinata’s eyes bug wide at the flash of _too much Kageyama_ before he hides behind his blanket.

He’s a little scared to look, after that, and only does so when Kageyama’s keys jingle. Hinata peeks out as Kageyama opens the bedroom door.

The moment it closes again, Hinata springs out of bed. Really, he should have planned better, should have set aside some clothes to pull on, but he did not, and instead he grabs some questionably clean items from a pile at the foot of his bed that might be fresh, might be dirty laundry, and yanks them in place.

It’s warm in the flat, heavy with a humid kind of air. Hinata drags his cap from the depths of his cupboard and his sunglasses from the draw, flinging them over his face, and he barely remembers to grab his keys before racing out of the flat.

He spots Kageyama half way down the street.

He’s walking briskly, hands jammed in the pockets of his hoodie. Hinata can’t fathom why he’s even _wearing_ one; it’s hotter out here than it was in the flat, so warm Hinata is starting to sweat even in his t-shirt (which is especially bad, because he did not waste precious time applying deodorant). Kageyama looks, predictably, unfazed, and Hinata wonders if fundamentally boring people are even affected by changes in the weather.

He follows him for almost twenty minutes before Kageyama turns off the footpath, and when Hinata takes the turn too he finds himself in a car park.

A car park for an ice rink.

Hinata falters. It’s...surprising, and the fact that it is surprising is even _more_ surprising because, really, he’s never found anything about Kageyama remotely shocking before. But this, this makes him pause.

What an _interesting_ business choice.

Hinata wonders what he might do in there. Perhaps he runs the zamboni, or maybe he’s the janitor, or _maybe_ his big scary frown gets him a job on security. Maybe he hides out in the back and cleans _boots_. Hinata just doesn’t know, but if Kageyama won’t tell him (which Hinata is ninety-nine per cent certain that he won’t, though he hasn’t actually _tried_ asking again), he’s going to find out for himself.

The sign on the door tells him the rink doesn’t open until nine AM.

This is a Problem. It’s a problem, because it’s only pushing seven thirty (why does he start so _early)_ , and because Hinata is tired, running on fumes, and, most importantly, because he is Not dressed for an ice rink.

He considers, for a moment, just...going home. It’s enough, is it not, to know where Kageyama works? Does he really have to know what it is he does there?

The answer is yes, he does, because there is finally something about Kageyama that might not be wholly uninteresting, and Hinata isn’t going to leave until he finds out exactly what it might be.

So, he waits.

And he waits.

And he _waits_.

It’s lucky the weather is so warm, he thinks, because he spends a large portion of his morning sitting out under the sun. When the doors click open at nine on the dot, it’s Kageyama that opens them, and Hinata considers following him in right there.

But there are no other people around, and Hinata is going to stand out like a sore thumb the moment he steps in anyhow. So he waits some more.

People trickle in steadily, at first. A few at a time, twos and threes and a family of five, a woman on her own, two teenage girls with their own skates slung over their shoulders and, finally, as the clock ticks over to _eleven_ and Hinata’s ass is growing numb against the ground, an entire _bus load_.

Hinata quickly determines that it is a birthday party. There are twenty of them, maybe more, girls of about twelve wrapping themselves in scarves and hats, donning gloves, and as they filter into the building Hinata joins himself on to the back of the queue.

It’s much, much colder inside.

The change in air takes the wind out of him, just for a moment; catches his breath in his lungs and pinches goosebumps over his arms.

It is bustling, cramped and crowded behind the party-goers, and Hinata pulls the brim of his cap low against his face and jams his hands in his pockets. It is steadily becoming apparent how _weird_ he must look with his cap and his sunglasses, his short sleeves and his sweats with a suspicious looking stain across the groin (Hinata _knows_ it’s toothpaste, but still).

Hinata...really didn’t think his plan this far through. He never thought he’d need to; didn’t imagine in a million years that Kageyama would work anywhere more complex than a coffee shop, maybe, and even then he’d bus tables, collect mugs or clean up spills, something mundane to suit his personality.

The good thing, though, is that as luck would have it, he doesn’t _need_ to think much further.

He doesn’t, because if he stands on his tiptoes and peers through the sea of heads _just_ right, he can see Kageyama standing there. He is taking a pair of shoes when Hinata spots him, sparkly ones, with bright white laces and he disappears from the hatchway for just a moment, before he returns with a pair of skates.

Huh.

Hinata couldn’t really imagine anywhere willingly putting Kageyama in a position through which he is required to be in contact with customers. He isn’t the kind of warm, friendly face Hinata would like to encounter at a skate-hire hatch, but really, nobody around him seems to mind. They hand over their tickets and they hand over their shoes, and Kageyama replaces them with skates that fit and a polite nod and the conveyor goes on, just like that.

Boring.

Hinata isn’t sure what he was hoping for. Something miraculous, some weird, extroverted ice rink job that would make Kageyama’s life seem a little more interesting. But he is bussing _shoes_ , probably actually _does_ have to clean gross skates that have been on gross feet, maybe has to pick up rubbish at the end of his shift, too. Hinata doesn’t know.

Hinata doesn’t care.

All he cares about now is getting home to his bed, where he will stay, _alone_ , until the early hours of the morning when Kageyama—

The early hours?

Hinata twists his head until he spots the poster on the wall displaying the opening times. Through the week, the rink closes to the public at seven o’clock in the evening. It remains open for practices—hockey, team skating—and for lessons—figure skating, ages eight to eighteen welcome—and even those end by ten.

And even then, surely Kageyama wouldn’t still be needed.

So why, Hinata thinks, is it that Kageyama never comes home before midnight?

* * *

Hinata finds a quiet corner to nap in. He probably (definitely) shouldn’t be up there, not if the big red _Private_ and _No Entry_ and _Staff Only_ signs are anything to go by, but he is tired, exhausted, and he has an awfully long day to go. 

From this room, Hinata can hear the clamour on the rink. He can hear the scrape of skates, screams of laughter, bouncy disco music echoing over the ice and, on occasion, he hears a voice over the tannoy making regular, boring announcements.

Hinata wonders if writing those is Kageyama’s job, too.

He sleeps on and off. In the periods during which he is awake, Hinata plays on his phone. He sends texts, checks his emails, plays game after game after game and he listens, braced, for footsteps outside his room.

When Hinata wakes up next, the clock on his phone tells him it’s nearing eleven at night. _Shit_. There are...several problems with this.

The first, he is probably locked in. This leads on to the second issue; he is most likely going to have to spend the night. And the third, perhaps the most vital problem, is that Kageyama has probably disappeared already, off to do whatever the hell it is he does after work.

Hinata curses, kicks himself to his feet.

The bulb in the room is bare. The hum of it is the only sound he can hear, at first, aside from his own irate grumbling and the shuffle of his shoes on the dusty floor. The rest of the building is still, silent.

And then a new noise filters in. It is one Hinata has heard all day, in his sporadic moments of wakefulness, and he stops dead to listen to it.

Blades. The scratch of skates on the ice.

The difference, though, is that rather than many skates on many feet, Hinata can hear only one pair. It sounds...smoother, somehow, than it did before. Lighter, and less manic.

He follows the sound all the way to the rink.

There is one body skirting the outside of the rink, and Hinata watches it through a little window on the door. Its moves are fluid, sailing over the ice, and for a moment Hinata just...watches them. There’s something beautiful to the ease of it. Hinata almost forgets why he’s there, watching, until the bite of the cold nips at his bare arms as a painful, humiliating reminder.

Hinata pushes the door.

The figure on the ice doesn’t notice him. Or, if they do, they ignore him. Instead they carve a path to the centre of the rink, and as Hinata walks right up to the barrier, they stop. They stop and they breathe, and Hinata finds himself stopping to breathe, too.

There is an atmosphere on the rink at night. This one body commands attention, draws Hinata’s gaze to it as their shoulders lift and fall, arms poised by their sides. Hinata curls his fingers over the dasher.

Their head raises up slowly. As it does, Hinata sees the familiar line of jaw, curve of cheek, turn of nose and, when they lift their lids, a familiar, boring shade of blue.

But there’s nothing boring about it now.

Kageyama looks... _alive_ , standing on the ice. His face looks soft, calm, almost _kind_ in his serenity.

When he moves, it is with a kind of grace Hinata didn’t think he had in him. He glides like he is floating, weightless, moves with ease and grace and there is something about the look on his face that is...expressive, so expressive of so many things it makes Hinata feel dizzy.

His blades hush over the ice. There is no music playing, but Hinata thinks there must be in Kageyama’s mind because he moves to a rhythm, slow and deliberate, soulful. Hinata’s chest burns with it.

The kick of his toes is effortless and he arches off the ice, twists, spins so fast Hinata’s head spins with him. He lands with a _tick_ , skates on, pushes himself along fluid as water. His eyes are closed loosely, and his lips are slack, gentle on his face.

He turns a wide curve around the rink with his head hung all the way back. The long line of his neck draws in the glare from the overheads and Hinata trails it with hungry eyes, follows a path from his collar all the way to his jaw. His mouth feels dry, tongue fat and weighty behind his teeth.

Kageyama kicks himself off again. He moves faster, with purpose, and even without the music to guide him Hinata can hear the crescendo building, can feel the momentum in the strike of Kageyama’s blades, in the hiss they draw from the ice, the shards they kick up like fine snow around his legs. Hinata digs his fingers harder into the board, leans so far over the railing to watch he might overbalance at any second.

Kageyama is _mesmerizing._

Despite the chill of the rink, Hinata feels hot all over. He follows Kageyama’s tail around the rink, twisting and turning, looping, dragging long, elegant strides over the ice and suddenly, as the climax hits, he stops on the spot and he spins.

He spins _forever_. He curls himself in, straightens himself out, wraps his arms and arcs his neck and when he stops, panting and heaving from the exertion, Hinata pants too.

There is a long moment of silence from both of them. Kageyama holds his pose a little longer, and Hinata retracts his nails from the barrier. He struggles to find anything to swallow. Kageyama’s arms fall to his sides. His eyes blink open, staring up at the overheads, and it is then that Hinata finds his voice.

“ _Bakageyama!”_

Kageyama starts so suddenly he wobbles, wind milling his arms to regain his balance.

“Dumbass!” he calls, scowl back in place. “What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

Hinata takes a few foolhardy steps onto the ice. It's...well, it's about as slippery as one would expect ice to be and his feet struggle for purchase. Kageyama doesn't move, just watches with a frown as Hinata grabs for the edge of the rink to steady himself.

“I didn't know,” he says, wobbles, “you could skate.”

Kageyama rocks on his skates. His sense of balance is effortless, natural. Hinata’s legs are scrambling out from under him and he isn't even _trying_ to move.

“You never asked,” he says simply.

It's...a fair point. It is, but in his defence, Hinata has never really seen reason to ask Kageyama anything—not when he has always come across as such an inherent bore.

“Well,” Hinata says, puffs air into his cheeks. “Well you never _asked_ me to ask you!”

Kageyama jams his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He shrugs, knocks the toe of one skate to the ice. Hinata can’t get over how...comfortable he looks, how at home, so different from his loping, graceless presence in the flat. More often than not he looks awkward, uncomfortable, too big and too tall for the air around him.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Hinata says. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Kageyama shrugs again.

“You’re such an idiot _,_ ” he says, and Kageyama’s frowning brows hop to his hairline. “What, what does—” Hinata shrugs both shoulders, hikes them all the way up past his ears until his neck melts into his collar, “—mean? You don’t know? How can you not know where you learned how to skate like that?”

Kageyama’s eyes bulge a little wider. If Hinata didn’t know him, didn’t know how incredibly frowny he was _all the time_ , he maybe wouldn’t have noticed the change, but as it stands there are only like...two wrinkles in his brow instead of hundreds, and there’s an arc to his brows that Hinata doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, and Kageyama’s skin looks really, really soft where it sits flat between his eyes.

He looks nice, almost, like this. Smoother, somehow, and a little more his age.

And then he scowls, and the moment is broken. If the cool air weren’t already pinching goosebumps across the bare skin of his arms, the look Kageyama is giving him right now would be.

“ _You’re_ calling _me_ stupid?” Kageyama seethes, toes himself across the ice to stop before the barrier. Hinata takes a tiny, cautious step back towards the gap in the dashers.

“Yes,” he says, because there is some deep, primal instinct to pick a fight with Kageyama at every available opportunity, even when Kageyama is wearing very sharp, very pointy shoes. “Yeah, because you _are_ stupid.”

“Not as stupid as you.”

“Way more stupid,” Hinata says, though he knows it’s not...entirely true. Kageyama gets better grades in all his classes (not by _loads_ , but there is a significant enough difference in their respective scores), and he is definitely better at looking after himself, and he hardly ever forgets his room key and, to Hinata’s knowledge, he has never actually forgotten where their flat is in the entire time they’ve lived there so really, he is probably a fair deal smarter.

But that isn’t the point right now.

“So stupid,” Hinata goes on,” you can’t even remember where you learned how to skate. How dumb do you have to be to forget that?”

Kageyama kicks a toe against the barrier threateningly.

“I took lessons all through school,” Kageyama grinds out. “Happy?”

“No,” Hinata says. “You’re like...really good.”

Kageyama takes a tiny moment to look surprised before he scoffs, bracing his elbows atop the barrier. Hinata watches a drop of sweat curve from his temple and down his cheek, over the line of his jaw.

“How would you know? What do you know about skating?”

Hinata shuffles his feet. They slip in big, wet circles over the ice, catch on the bumps and grooves where skates have dug trenches in the smooth surface. Truthfully, he knows nothing. He’s never even really _seen_ anyone skate before, not like Kageyama just did, but it’ll be a damn cold day in Hell before he admits that out loud.

“Not much,” he says instead, jutting his chin out, “but you didn’t fall over, not even _once_ , and you didn’t look even a little bit dizzy _and_ you looked like you were having _fun_ , which is an entirely new thing for you.”

Kageyama makes a grab for him and Hinata yelps, slips a couple of steps back and hops through the gap in the barrier, back onto solid ground.

“Oi, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Hinata says, skitters a little further back, well out of Kageyama’s reach, “I’ve never seen you have fun ever, in your life—”

“—in the, what, four months you’ve known me?”

“If you haven’t had fun in the last four months I think it’s pretty safe to say you’ve never had fun ever.”

“I can have fun,” he says, and then he nods, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince Hinata. “I just don’t when you’re around, dumbass.”

“Rude, Kageyama!”  

“You were rude first, dumbass!”

“That’s—that’s not the point.”

Kageyama rubs a palm over his face. He sighs, breath misting on the cold air, and steps off the rink, too, wobbling stiff and unsteady until he drops into a chair. Hinata watches him, for a while, as he unfastens his laces and slips his feet from his skates.

“Why don’t you skate like...all the time, if you’re so good at it?”

Kageyama looks up at him. He’s got a weird look on his face, like he’s thinking just a little too hard about something that shouldn’t be difficult at all, and then he scowls, and he shrugs, and he rams his feet into his trainers.

“I don’t,” Kageyama starts, and then he huffs, “I don’t like being _watched_. That’s why I do it at night, when nobody is _supposed_ to be here.”

Hinata forces an awkward laugh and scratches at the back of his neck.

“About that; I fell asleep.”

Kageyama lifts his head and blinks.

“You. You fell asleep. In the building.” Hinata nods. “And nobody woke you up? Kicked you out?”

Hinata waves him off and digs his fingers into the hem of his shirt.

“Nah, I was in a private room—”

“—a _staff only_ room—”

“—Yeah, one of those. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

Kageyama shoves his skates into his bag. He’s all pink right across his cheeks, up the back of his neck when he stands, turns, marching from the rink with his bag strap fisted in one hand. Hinata jogs to keep up as Kageyama blows through the doors and into the locker room.

“Why are you here in the first place?”

Hinata dances on his toes while Kageyama jams his bag in a locker. He isn’t sure he wants to tell him the truth; honestly, thinking on it in hindsight, Hinata could well have just asked Kageyama again, and maybe he’d have given him a straight answer. And then he’d never have had to follow him, never have gotten locked in the rink, never have seen Kageyama skate.

He isn’t sure he likes that idea.

He also isn’t sure he likes the idea of owning up. It’s weird, embarrassing, very not-okay, really, that he chose to stalk his roommate rather than just...asking a simple question. He shuffles his shoes, folds his arms over his chest.

When he does tell him, Kageyama’s look is incredulous at best, furious at worst.

There’s a big, shouty argument after that, with an awful lot of pinching and grabbing and thinly-veiled threats, and it follows them all the way out of the rink, and down the street, up one road and another, and another, until they are stumbling through the door to their flat and Hinata is dodging the reach of Kageyama’s outstretched hands.

“Well,” he says, skirting a circle around the back of the couch, “ _would_ you have told me?”

Kageyama clenches his fist at his side. The right answer is _no_ , Hinata knows, and he takes what little triumph he can get from the irate scrunch of Kageyama’s face.

“See? So it’s not that stupid after all.”

“It’s still stupid,” Kageyama says. “And you’re still stupid, and it’s late, and I need a shower.”

“What’s _stupid_ is that you don’t want people to see you skate.”

Kageyama stops halfway to the bathroom.

“It’s the only time you’ve ever _not_ dull,” Hinata goes on, “which is like...a miracle, almost. It’s stupid that you don’t want people to see that.”

Kageyama’s shoulders climb a little higher, sit a little closer below his ears. Hinata watches a flush of red creep up the back of his neck.

“I don’t...skate well, when people can see me.”

“You skated fine today,” Hinata says. Kageyama cranes his neck around to look at him.

“Because I didn’t _know_ you were there, dumbass.”

“Well,” he says, “maybe you should let me watch more often! It’ll be good practice, and I might start thinking you’re an interesting person and less of a huge loser.”

For a fraction of a second, Kageyama looks like he might get mad again. Hinata wouldn’t blame him, honestly, and he brings his fists up in a fighting stance, ready, but then Kageyama ponders. He thinks for a moment longer before he turns and steps the rest of the way to the bathroom door.

Hinata squirms on the spot.

“So...can I come watch sometimes?”

Kageyama raises his brows. He hooks his fingers around the door handle, bumps his toe against the frame. Hinata watches a dull dusting of pink settle high on his cheeks. It’s... _cute_ , almost. For Kageyama.

“I guess.”

* * *

And so, Hinata does. 

Every weekend, almost, Hinata treads the path from their tiny student flat to the ice rink. Most evenings, the doors are already closed when he gets there, locked, but all it takes is a text to Kageyama’s phone—of which Hinata didn’t even know he _had_ —and the door swings open for him.

Hinata quickly learns that Kageyama is super, incredibly _shy_.

Maybe shy isn’t quite the right word for it; nervous, really, or self-conscious, anxious, whatever. The point is, Kageyama has precisely zero confidence in anything, ever, in his whole life, and honestly, it explains an awful lot of things.

Most importantly, it explains why he has always appeared so vastly, vapidly _dull_.

Even the first few times Hinata watched him skate, he was stiff, stunted in his movements, nothing like the graceful copycat Kageyama Hinata saw the very first time. He also kept _looking_ , casting his eyes to where Hinata sat in the vast, invisible crowd, hands bunched beneath his thighs to keep them warm. He kept looking, and he kept blushing, shaking his head and clearing his throat and trying to find his silent rhythm.

It wasn’t until the fourth, maybe fifth time, that things started to change. Hinata isn’t sure, but he thinks Kageyama might have genuinely given himself an honest-to-god pep-talk. He didn’t say anything when he opened the doors, or when he locked them again, or when he lead Hinata to the ice on wobbly, stiff legs because he never takes off his skates to let him in, because he’s an _idiot_ , and he didn’t say anything when Hinata climbed into the middle of the stands to take his usual seat.

At the very least, he didn’t say anything _out loud_. Hinata could see his mouth moving, though, lips tracing the patterns words should make, but there was no noise from them, not loud enough for Hinata to hear.

He closed his eyes on the ice. Took a big, deep breath, let it out slow, and when he opened his eyes again there was the same kind of focus Hinata saw the first time. It sent a thrill through him, froze the air in his chest and stilled the breeze in the rink.

And then when he moved, when he _finally_ started his routine, every whisper of his blades and every turn of his head, swing of his arms or kick of his legs commanded each and every ounce of attention Hinata had to give.

Hinata thinks about that performance a _lot_.

There is just one small problem with seeing Kageyama skate so often, and it is that Hinata literally cannot stop _thinking_ about it.

Things are innocent, at first; Hinata dwells on the beauty of it, the way Kageyama’s every move hypnotises him, sends his heart frantic in his chest. But after a while—a couple of weeks of watching, _really_ watching Kageyama move—Hinata finds something decidedly _not_ innocent in the way the muscles of Kageyama’s legs bunch, flex, propel him over the ice and into the air. There is nothing naive about the heat in his gut when he traces the line of Kageyama’s jaw, about the swell of his chest, the tight, tense pull of his stomach at the peak of skin beneath Kageyama’s hoodie when he jumps and when he spins.

There is absolutely, one hundred percent _nothing_ pure about the curve of Kageyama’s ass in his jeans, the broad plain of his chest beneath his hoodie, the bite of his teeth against his lip as he concentrates, works hard for his next move, the little welts that redden his mouth that Hinata _desperately_ wants to soothe with his tongue.

There is nothing pure about _any_ of this when it plays over and _over_ in Hinata’s mind, his hand in his shorts, fingers wrapped around himself and his breaths nipped into his pillow with Kageyama asleep at his back.

This...nightly ritual is becoming a problem. It is, because Hinata _loves_ that he gets to watch Kageyama skate, that he gets to see a little _life_ in him, but the more he watches, the less he can appreciate the sheer beauty of it without feeling hot, burning, guilty and wicked all at once.

Still, Hinata thinks; what Kageyama doesn’t know can’t hurt him. And Kageyama never, _ever_ has to know.

The other thing Hinata learns is that Kageyama, as it turns out, is...not as boring as Hinata had been lead to believe. Aside from skating, Hinata discovers that Kageyama is interested in an array of other sports—running, swimming, volleyball (which is maybe Hinata’s favourite sport _ever_ , not that he’s any good at it)—and he likes some of the same tv shows as Hinata, some of the same manga, even plays some of the same video games.

(He also keeps a stash of very graphic magazines beneath his bed, the same ones Hinata hides at the bottom of his sock drawer, but they both agreed they’d never talk about that one.)

But Hinata has spent months being conditioned to assume that Kageyama is, in fact, very terribly boring, and it’s an awfully hard habit to break.

* * *

The night is cold. It’s wet and windy, a harsh Autumn storm battering the windows, rattling the little glass panels in their frames. Hinata’s laptop is propped on his desk chair, the closing sets of a volleyball game lulling them into silence. 

Hinata watches with baited breath. He knows the outcome—the game isn’t live, just an old favourite—but the tension is there, ever-present, and Hinata kicks his heels against his thighs and hugs a pillow close under his chin.

“Wait for this toss, Kageyama,” he says, and Kageyama hums. He is sitting warm at his side, sock-clad toes curled into Hinata’s blankets. “It’s so fast, like _schoom_ , and the spiker hits it like _bam_ and then—”

“Shut up before you ruin it, dumbass,” Kageyama grumbles. Hinata rolls his eyes, drops his cheek to the cushion and twists his gaze over his shoulder.

“You’ve seen it _before_.”

Hinata knows this to be true, he does, because he has made Kageyama watch the same game at _least_ four times now, but Kageyama still shushes him with his knuckles digging into the back of Hinata’s thigh.

Hinata groans, long and loud and wailing, and collapses face down into the mattress.

“Why,” he says, voice muffled by the bedding, “do you have to suck the _fun_ out of _everything_?”

“I don’t do that.”

“Do so.”

“Do _not_.”

“Do so!” Hinata snaps his head up and swings it around once more, sticks his tongue in Kageyama’s direction. “You’re such a...a...a _fun sponge_.”

Kageyama blinks at him. He looks owlish, wide-eyed and a little lost, honestly, and there are a few long, slow moments where all he _does_ is blink and stare.

“A fun sponge.”

Hinata nods his head. He grabs his cushion once more and cuddles it back to his chest.

“A fun sponge,” he says, nods again. “Like, you come into a room and you just...soak up all the fun, like a great big boring frowny _sponge_.”

Kageyama reaches over the back of Hinata’s leg to fish up another cushion.

“I’m not _boring_ , dumbass,” he says, slaps the plush to the back of Hinata’s head. “I can have fun. Just not with you. Maybe _you’re_ the boring one, ever think of that?”

“Never. I’m the most fun person.”

Kageyama settles back against the wall. His palm sits loose over the back of Hinata’s thigh, leaching heat, warm and soft where it rests against him. Hinata’s cheeks grow hot, blood sweeping into his face with each frantic beat of his heart. Sitting with Kageyama like this is nice, it’s always nice, but being _touched_ by him, even in a way as innocent as this…

Hinata squirms, guilty mind buzzing with the kinds of thoughts that feed a fire low in his gut.

“I’m not boring,” Kageyama says again, quietly this time. “I’m just...not as open about stuff, I guess.”

For a moment, Hinata almost feels bad. Almost, but he is a little too preoccupied with the mindless curl of Kageyama’s fingers against his sweats. They tickle at him, tease and taunt and Kageyama really mustn’t realise he’s doing it, he mustn’t, because although Kageyama can be mean, he can’t possibly be _that_ terrible.

“You are,” Hinata says. His voice comes out soft, breathy even though he’s trying about as hard as he can to fill it out. It’s just hard to concentrate with Kageyama _stroking_ him like that. “You’re less boring when you’re skating, and sometimes when you’re _talking_ about skating, but other than that you’re like...the most boring person ever, probably.”

There’s a quiet, tense minute where Hinata thinks Kageyama is maybe really, genuinely offended. He doesn’t say anything, just stares beyond the bare white wall, and then his eyes flick to his cupboard, and after a couple of seconds he squares his jaw and nods.

“I’ll prove it.”

Hinata cocks his head. He swings a leg back up, pokes his toes at Kageyama’s chest.

“Prove what?”

Long, slender fingers curl around Hinata’s ankles and Kageyama squeezes, soft, gaze trained hard and steely on the wardrobe.

“That I can be _fun,_ too.”

* * *

“Look, will you just hurry up?” 

Hinata plods a little way behind Kageyama. It’s nearing midnight on a Sunday, the sky a thick, murky black, mottled by dark grey clouds that shadow the stars. Hinata tugs his jacket tighter around himself.

At times like this, he almost misses the actual boring Kageyama. The Kageyama that _didn’t_ wake him up at all hours and drag him, half sleeping, all the way across town.

“I’m tired,” he moans. He can’t see Kageyama’s face, but he can imagine that his eyes are rolling. “How do you work _all day_ and then stay out even _longer_? How are you not _dead?”_

Kageyama looks back at him, incredulous, and shakes his head.

“I don’t work _all day_ , stupid. What, you thought I worked from seven-thirty all the way through to like, midnight? That’s illegal, I think.”

“I don’t think it is,” Hinata says, though he really has no idea. ”What do you do in the middle?”

“Work for classes? Have lunch? Sometimes I nap in the staff room. Doesn’t matter, anyway, just come _on_.”

Kageyama, predictably, leads him to the ice rink. It’s a regular occurrence, though most nights it’s earlier, _before_ midnight, and most times Hinata is given a little warning.

The lights are already on; nothing unusual. Kageyama locks the door behind them which is, again, perfectly normal. The first Strange Occurrence is that Kageyama instructs him to stop, for a moment, and he disappears behind a door he has to open with one of many keys on a ring. Hinata waits in the cold, blowing hot breaths onto his chill-bitten fingers.

Kageyama returns after a moment, and when he does he grabs Hinata by the sleeve of his hoodie and leads ( _drags_ ) him to the rink. Hinata jogs to follow and takes his usual seat a little way back in the stands.

It is only when Kageyama shucks off his coat and tightens up his skates that Hinata notices there are another two profoundly different things about tonight.

One) the speakers are on, spunk disco music echoing over the rink, spilling into the farthest corners of the stands, and two) Kageyama is dressed. _Really_ dressed, in black slacks tightened with a leather belt, shiny buckle gleaming beneath the overheads, and a loose blue button-down tucked in at the waist. Tiny little gems emboss the fabric, twinkling like snowflakes, and the top few buttons sit loose and open to expose the bare skin at his chest. Hinata has a hard time looking away.  

“What’re you doing?” Hinata asks, rubbing at his tired eyes. He isn’t sure if it’s the lack of sleep or the lighting, but Kageyama’s cheeks look...pink, really pink, hot and flushed, and Hinata’s cheeks warm to match them.

“Proving I can be fun. Now shut up.”

“Why’d you bring me here if you’re just gonna be _mean,”_

Kageyama tucks the legs of his trousers over his laces and stands. He doesn’t reply, just steps out onto the ice and kicks out a few warm-up laps. Hinata sits forward to watch.

Impossibly, Kageyama looks even better than usual. Most nights, Kageyama skates in his jeans and his hoodie. He looks good, then—Hinata thinks Kageyama probably always looks good—but tonight, he looks _smart_. Dignified. He looks...ready to perform.  

Hinata sits on his cool hands and cranes his neck, follows the meandering weave Kageyama threads over the ice. He looks different, tonight. Hinata isn’t sure if it’s just the clothes, the way the gems on his shirt glint and gleam, wink like stars against the sky-blue backdrop, the line his slacks cut against his hips, down his thighs, or if it is something about Kageyama himself.

As the pop song over the system comes to a close, Kageyama skates to the middle of the rink.

He takes his usual breath. Hinata watches him suck in all of his tension, let it out slow and steady and as he does, he cocks the toe of one skate to the floor and loosens his shoulders, sets them back, finds Hinata’s eyes in the sea of empty chairs.

The tinny whine of rattling cymbals bleeds from the speakers.

On cue, Kageyama comes to life. His shoulders roll, first one, then the other, and his skates carve a steady backwards loop over the ice. The fluidity of it looks good enough, bubbles thick, swelling heat in Hinata’s chest but what is even _better_ is that Kageyama’s eyes are still on him, blue lit low beneath hooded lids.

Hinata can’t look away. Wouldn’t, even if he could. Kageyama _never_ looks at him when he skates.

When the first high, sinuous note spills from guitar strings, Kageyama’s chest opens out, arms spread, legs wide, and Hinata’s stomach jumps into his throat. Kageyama _always_ looks good when he skates; there is always something... _hot_ about it, about the form of him, the long lines and curves and shapes of his body, but this—this is something else entirely.

Kageyama is using his hands far more than he usually does. They run lines over himself, through his hair, smoothing down his chest, his stomach, rolling over his hips and trailing from his thighs, taking the air. Hinata’s breath catches thick in his throat; he barely notices the jumps and the spins. He is too caught up in the way Kageyama is _touching_ himself.

He probably doesn’t need the music. Hinata would be able to hear it anyway, draw the riffs from the sway of Kageyama’s shoulders, the undulation of his hips. There is so much rhythm to every move that Hinata thinks he could probably play the tune with them.

Kageyama teeters steps to the music as though he weren’t on ice at all. He runs on the picks of his blades, tiny steps that rock his hips _just_ right. His arms play what notes his hips and shoulders don’t; they burst out with every new chord, fingers splayed, dragging the waver of the strings through the air behind him.

He jumps, and the guitar grows quiet, and Hinata thinks it might be over.

And then the drums kick in.  

The beat drifts from something slower, more sensual, to something so charged Hinata’s gut _aches_ with it.

Kageyama’s movements make an abrupt change, too. They shift with the music, from the long body swings to shorter, sharper flicks of his arms, cocks of his hips. He sweeps a wide arch of the rink, hands on his knees, and when his eyes meet Hinata’s in the crowd there is a _smile_ on his face. It sits higher in one corner, drags his lip up just enough that Hinata can see of glint of teeth.

He pops his chest, straightens, and kicks himself in circles so fast his hair blows back off his forehead.

Hinata groans and bites his lip.

He wonders what it would be like to touch him, right now. To skate alongside him, mirror him, feel the tug and pull of the muscles beneath his shirt, the clench of his thighs, taste the sweat running lines down his neck.

He is thirsty for the feel of him. _Parched_.

Kageyama knows what he’s doing. It’s in that smile; it’s coy, and cocky, and nothing like anything Hinata has ever seen from him before. He drags it wider as he skates, draws his legs together with the slide of the chords and blazes a path over the rink.

Hinata draws his legs together, too. The crotch of his jeans is uncomfortably snug.

Kageyama is a whirlwind. There is so much going on with his feet that Hinata struggles to keep up; they switch, slide, prance in the same tiptoeing steps that sway his hips, kick him into aerial spins that go on forever.

It’s at the moment when he finds Hinata’s eyes once more and thumbs at his belt buckle, jerks his hips into the slap of his palms that Hinata knows he has really, truly lost some kind of battle. He groans, audibly, and on the ice Kageyama nips his lip between his teeth.

As much as Hinata _loves_ watching, he wants this to be over. Now.

The guitar goes wild, and Kageyama does too. He is frantic, dashing, kicking his feet and swinging his hips, spinning to the beat of the drums and the rattle of cymbals and as the music rounds off, Kageyama comes to an abrupt halt, toe pick dug into the ice and one arm stretched to the sky.

Hinata stumbles up from his seat.

Kageyama’s shoulders heave. The sequins smattering his shirt shine under the glow of the overheads. Hinata struggles his way down the staircase, feet fumbling beneath him.

“How was that?” Kageyama says, gliding up to the barrier. Hinata misses the bottom step, bangs his chest into the dasher hard enough to wind him. He doesn’t reply, just grabs the collar of Kageyama’s shirt and drags him close enough to kiss.

He can feel Kageyama go unsteady. There’s a frantic scratch of blades on ice and he wobbles beneath Hinata’s hands, beneath his lips like he’s trying to keep his feet.

Kissing Kageyama is...nice. It's nice, and warm, and Kageyama’s lips are a little chapped from the cool air but his tongue feels soft where it brushes his own. Hinata takes a long breath in through his nose.

“Good,” Hinata breathes, right into Kageyama’s mouth. “Really, really good.”

If Kageyama is at all surprised by Hinata kissing him, on the mouth, out of nowhere, he doesn’t show it. Instead he kisses back, grabs the strings of Hinata’s hoodie and tugs until they are chest to chest over the barrier.

“Get off the ice,” Hinata mumbles. Kageyama nods, releasing his hold on Hinata just long enough to skate to a gap in the barrier. He looks a little lost on solid ground, struggles to move fast on his skates and a laugh bubbles from Hinata’s throat as he watches. It’s graceless, the complete opposite of his every move on the ice, but he still looks impossibly good.

Kageyama comes at him full force and they stumble back in the thin gap between barrier and chair. It’s messy, clumsy; Kageyama’s feet tread heavy and uneven on solid ground and Hinata is tripping over himself in his eagerness, calves knocking into the upturned seats of folded chairs.

“Slow down, dumbass,” Kageyama says. The words come hissed against Hinata’s mouth, and Kageyama stills him with his fingers clenched into the fabric at his waist. He turns him, twists until Hinata’s back is to the ice, and Kageyama pushes at his shoulders, catches Hinata’s lip between his teeth and nudges him back until his spine presses into the barrier behind him.

He’s a little (hugely, massively) embarrassed by how eager he is, how eager his dick is against the fly of his jeans, but when Kageyama steps to press flush against him—he’s tall, so tall already but with his skates he’s even bigger, towering so he has to crane his neck to kiss Hinata—his hips dig against Hinata’s stomach, and it’s nice to know he isn’t the only one getting a little too excited.

Kageyama is hard, too, and throbbing in his slacks. Hinata arcs his back and Kageyama’s hips rut forward, cock dragging over the hard, tense muscles at Hinata’s waist. One of Kageyama’s hands finds Hinata’s thigh and runs a smooth, light line up, up his leg and over the curve of his ass and there he presses, dragging his hand up to Hinata’s spine and down again.

“I wanna finger you.”

“ _Hah?!_ ”

“If we’re gonna do it, you need to like...stretch out first.”

Hinata’s mind whirrs to catch up. He’s a little lost, honestly; hazy from the kisses Kageyama is peppering along his jaw, against his lips, foggy in the smell of him and the heat of him, dizzy from the hard outline of Kageyama’s cock where it rubs against him.

“Who says—” Hinata stops, stutters out a breath when Kageyama wedges a knee between his thighs. “Who says I’m going on the bottom?”

“You don’t have to,” Kageyama hums. His voice is low, thick and syrupy, trickling through Hinata’s ears to reach his addled brain. “Have you even done this before?”

Hinata squeaks, colour burning up his cheeks.

“Yes,” he says, high and tinny, but it’s an outright lie and Kageyama knows it, he must do, because that lopsided smile quirks it’s way back over his mouth and he nips at Hinata’s bottom lip with a laugh.

“Who’s _boring_ now?”

“Still you.”

Kageyama’s thigh hooks up higher between Hinata’s legs. It feels _blindingly_ good, so good his brain rattles in his skull.

“So, can I?”

His palm is already flat at Hinata’s back, low on his spine, fingers playing at the waistband of his jeans. The press of his hand is hot, burning, searing into his skin so much that Hinata thinks it will scar, a big, Kageyama-hand-print branding him forever.

Hinata doesn’t think he’d mind.

“Fine.”

Kageyama steps away. Cool air billows into the space between them and it’s such a sharp contrast to the heat of Kageyama’s torso that Hinata shivers, fists the front of his hoodie and pulls it tight. The icy air dries the inside of his mouth as he breathes, lips open, gusting a heavy mist into the rink.

He watches Kageyama reach into his skate bag, shuffling items until he finds what he’s looking for, and when he lifts it out—

“Do you just carry those things _around_ with you?”

Hinata stares at the little plastic bottle in Kageyama’s hand. Kageyama has the decency to look at least a little embarrassed before he hops back down the stairs—it’s undignified, clumsy, wobbling on his blades because in their rush, he still hasn’t found the time to take them off—and crowds Hinata back into the dasher.

“I did today,” he says, and Hinata’s stomach melts right out of him.

“Is this what you meant?” Hinata can hear himself panting, wispy and breathy as Kageyama pushes the top of the bottle and smears the clear gel over his fingers.

“What I meant?”

His free hand finds the front of Hinata’s jeans, fiddles to unfasten them.

“When you said you’d— _ng_ —show me you can be fun?”

With Hinata’s jeans undone, Kageyama shucks up the hem of his hoodie and splays his hand over Hinata’s back. His hands are cold, achingly so, melting against the heat of Hinata’s skin beneath his clothes. He groans and leans his weight against Kageyama’s chest.

“Duh.” His voice comes soft as he concentrates, smooths his lube-free hand down the back of Hinata’s jeans and palms over his cheeks. Hinata’s blood bubbles under his skin, boiling. “What, you thought I meant the skating?”

“Yes!” Hinata doesn’t mean to shout, he doesn’t, but Kageyama has warmed the gel between his fingers and slid that hand into his pants, too, until he is slicking a line between Hinata’s cheeks. It’s weird, so weird, most definitely up there with the weirdest things Hinata has ever felt, ever, but it’s _thrilling_ , too, sends his heart buzzing behind his ribs.

He groans, soft, lets his mouth rest against Kageyama’s collar and rolls his hips back into Kageyama’s touch.

“I let you watch me skate all the time, stupid.”

“Not— _ha_ —not like today.” The slide of Kageyama’s fingers is becoming more focused, circling around Hinata’s hole and pressing against the little ring of muscle. Hinata’s breaths come quick, frantic. “You don’t skate like that every day.”

“True. Do you want me to stop?”

It takes Hinata a moment to realise he is shaking, shuddering from head to toe and his breaths come a little wheezy from his chest, dragging through his throat with the same sharp scrape as metal over ice. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says.

“Tell me if you don’t like it.”

“Mhm.”

And then Kageyama pushes.

Hinata sort of expects it to be...better. It’s not _bad_ , but it is strange, bordering on uncomfortable. Hinata grabs the silk of Kageyama’s shirt between his fingers and pulls tight, tugs his torso close to chase off the chill. The wriggle of Kageyama’s finger in him— _in_ him, inside his body—is alien, but when Kageyama rolls it, crooks it, there’s a spark of something like stone on flint. Hinata holds his breath, grinds his hips back.

A tiny little _whoosh_ of air sucks it’s way out of his lungs.

“That was nice,” he says, slides his hands from Kageyama’s waist to his hips, curling his fingers into his belt loops. “Do that—do that again.”

Kageyama does, does it again and again and each press makes Hinata jerk, twitches his muscles and hitches his breath. It’s still not incredible, not like it looks in the videos (that he stumbled upon, definitely did not seek out himself and _absolutely_ did not do it on the library servers, not even a little bit) but it is starting to warm him.

“I’m gonna put another one in.”

Hinata’s eyes widen but he doesn’t have time to say anything, because Kageyama is already slipping a second finger in alongside the first and Hinata whines, stills, quakes as it sinks to the knuckle.

It’s wild, the realisation that this is really, actually happening. Kageyama is hot and hard, pressed against Hinata’s abs and he is panting, too, straining with every pump of his fingers. Hinata can still taste his breath on his tongue, feel it billowing over his hair as Kageyama—Kageyama Tobio, World’s Most Boring Person™—fingers him open in the middle of the night at an empty ice rink.

It’s the weirdest dream come true _ever_.

Kageyama’s neck bends, cranes low enough to nudge at the side of Hinata’s head. He pushes with his temple, guiding Hinata’s head back enough to kiss him square on the mouth before he sinks his teeth into the strained sinew arcing a line up the side of Hinata’s neck.

Hinata gasps, quivering, pressing his hips down on Kageyama’s fingers.

“I’ve been— _a-ah_ —I’ve been thinking about this f-for— _hnng_ —” Hinata is stuttering, a useless, melting mess under Kageyama’s hands. Kageyama breaths out against his neck and when he speaks, he is so close his lips catch over Hinata’s skin.

“I know,” he says. Hinata’s whole body tightens and a laugh bubbles from Kageyama’s throat. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?”

Hinata’s cheeks _burn_. Of course Kageyama knows—of course he does, how could he not _,_ sleeping not five feet from Hinata’s bed where he has been fucking into his own fist, every damn _night_ for _weeks_ now, with Kageyama’s name hissed behind his teeth. How could he not when Hinata can barely control the blow of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks with every move Kageyama makes on the ice.

How could he not, when Hinata has been so painfully obvious?

“More,” he breathes, shudders. Kageyama’s fingers press impossibly deeper, poke and prod and find parts of him he didn’t even know he _had_ , parts that feel incredible, spark real, actual fire in big blazing lines up his spine. Hinata groans, stuttered and stunted, pushes his chest into Kageyama’s and rolls his hips back.

He can feel Kageyama’s hard length tenting his slacks, pressing into his stomach. He feels hot, hard and twitching with every groan that spills from Hinata’s lips. His hips keep jerking, tiny little ruts whenever Hinata’s fingers pinch too tight at his hips.

“You feel so good,” Kageyama moans. It isn’t loud, not really, but with the vastness of the rink and the emptiness of it, it echoes, and Hinata’s cheeks burn hot and, he thinks, very, very red.

“Oi, idiot!” Hinata reaches up a trembling arm and claps his hand over Kageyama’s mouth. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

Kageyama shakes his head to dislodge Hinata’s hand.

“Asshole,” he says, presses his fingers so deep Hinata rides up on his toes. Kageyama’s cheeks are red, too, cherry red, so red he could stop traffic. “It’s a compliment.”

“It’s— _ohn_ —it’s embarrassing.” Hinata’s breaths are hitching, bouncing as Kageyama drags his fingers in and out, fast and hard. He drops his mouth again, nips his teeth around Hinata’s earlobe.

One hand wedges its way between them to palm at the crotch of Hinata’s jeans, and Hinata’s whole body twangs like strings.

“You wanna—” Kageyama cups him. He squeezes, rolls his fingertips over that spot, “—wanna come on my fingers?”

Hinata doesn’t have much of a choice.

There’s something about the tone of his voice, the hot, molten flow of it that scorches Hinata from his stomach out. His back bows over the barrier, neck tipped back, shoulders heaving, shuddering as he spills in his jeans. Kageyama rides him through with his fingers smoothing inside him and his hand rubbing over him, palm running circles against his head where he is leaking, wet and sticky in his boxers.

Kageyama pulls his fingers out. Hinata feels weirdly empty, a little lost without the press of them filling him. He takes a couple of steps back, falls to sit in one of the chairs and Hinata’s knees buckle, back sliding down the barrier until he is sitting on his heels, sucking the cool rink air.

“Okay?” Kageyama asks. Hinata nods, blinks up through his hair.

“You’re still hard.”

Kageyama nods, smooths his palm over himself. His hips sink low, lift up off the chair into his own hand and Hinata groans, crawling onto his knees between Kageyama’s legs.

“I want,” Kageyama starts, but he cuts himself off with a moan, tips his head over the back of the chair and grinds harder into his palm. “I want to feel you come on my cock, too.”

Hinata’s face burns. Sets on _fire_. These are not, absolutely not things that Kageyama should be saying. He’s too boring, too awkward, too _Kageyama_ for those kinds of phrases, but he said it, he said it out loud, touching himself, with Hinata kneeling between his thighs and the slick of actual ass-lube still coating his fingers.

“Vulgar, _Tobio_ ,” Hinata says. He rests a cheek against Kageyama’s thigh and the muscle jumps beneath him, twitches and shakes. “Didn’t peg your boring ass for a _pervert_.”

Kageyama stutters up into his own hand, and with the other he tugs at his belt, pulls it open and unfastens his pants, too, until Hinata can see the solid outline of his cock in his underwear. He’s leaking, spreading an embarrassingly large wet patch over the cloth.

“Have you,” Hinata starts, ignores the burn in his cheeks, “have you been thinking about this, too? About me?”

Kageyama lifts his head and nods. His eyes are _black_ , blown so wide his pupils have swallowed all their colour, and they’re hooded, heavy, a little glazed where his gaze rests on Hinata’s face.

“Mhm,” he hums. Hinata watches him thumb at himself, rub over the outline of his head. “For ages. Months.” His hips jump with every word and Hinata licks his lips, rubs his cheek further up Kageyama’s thigh until his breath ghosts over Kageyama’s knuckles.

“What kinds of things do you think about?”

“You really wanna know?” Kageyama asks. He thumbs the waistband of his boxers down, pops himself free and Hinata is left staring at the underside of his cock, flushed red and hard as rock, leaking against the silk of his shirt.

“You really want to tell me.”

Hinata doesn’t pose it as a question because he knows it’s true; he can tell by the way Kageyama is straining, by the way he bites at his lip, hard enough the skin blooms white and the way his cock jumps at Hinata’s every word.

“I think about fucking you,” he says, blunt but airy, “bending you over the bed, bouncing you on my lap. I think about how good you’d look t-taking my cock.”

His words are getting a little higher, sitting tighter in his throat. Hinata watches him work himself, really work himself now, curl his fist around his shaft and tug, slow and steady.

“What else?”

“Think about you sucking me,” he says. “Your lips wrapped around me. You’d look so good like that.”

Hinata wonders if Kageyama is really like this in bed or if he’s been watching too many dirty videos, reading his dirty magazines, but either way, Hinata doesn’t care. It aches in him, re-kindles the flame, pumps blood back into his cock until he’s standing to attention, too. He wants to hear more.

“What do I do?  When you think about me, how do I do it?”

Hinata, honestly, has no idea how to go about playing a cock with his mouth but, he thinks, he’d maybe like to try. Definitely, if Kageyama will let him.

“I don’t _know_ ,” he says, and for the first time he looks a little shy to be talking. “You just...mouth at it, run your lips over it.”

Hinata leans up on his knees, bends in until he’s breathing a steady flow of air over Kageyama’s cock, and pushes Kageyama’s fist out of the way.

It tastes... _weird_. Not unpleasant, but not particularly good either. Hinata has to tilt his head to cup his lips around him, against his shaft, and he laves his tongue over the skin between them until Kageyama is panting.

“Fuck, like that.” Long, shaky fingers curl into the hair at the back of Hinata’s head. “Just like that.”

Hinata works until his mouth is watering, until Kageyama is leaking a line that reaches his cheek, salty and sticky where it runs close to his mouth. Hinata hums against him, opens his eyes and rolls to see Kageyama’s face.

“Then what?” he asks, pulling away just enough that his lips and tongue still play against Kageyama’s length as he speaks.

“Take it in your mouth.” Kageyama is whispering, barely breathing, shaking with anticipation as Hinata sits a little higher, drags his lips up to the head. He thumbs at the pearl of come dripping over Hinata’s cheek, gathers it at the corner of Hinata’s mouth.

It’s a daunting prospect. Kageyama felt big in his slacks, looked big in his hand but now that Kageyama’s mouth is against him, lips pressed plump and firm to his leaking head, he seems _monstrous_.

Hinata takes him in slowly. It feels _weird_ , hard but soft, too, smooth like silk sliding across his tongue. Above him, Kageyama moans, long and low and near-silent but Hinata can hear it, feel it thrum in him.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “So good, Hinata.”

Hinata can’t take as much as he’d hoped. He chokes when Kageyama presses somewhere just behind his tongue, gags around him, coughs and drops drool past his lips but Kageyama doesn’t seem to mind. Hinata can feel the strain of him, the taut muscles at his hips and thighs, fighting to hold himself still despite the heat of Hinata’s mouth wrapped around him.

“Suck,” Kageyama says— _commands_ —and Hinata does. He hollows his cheeks, sucks until Kageyama’s hips are _rolling_ , rutting up against his tongue and his throat and the length of him that Hinata can’t fit past his lips is curled in his fist, rubbed and stroked.

“Gonna— _haa_ —fuck, Hinata—Sho-Shouou.” Hinata’s name, his first name, his _given_ name chants off of Kageyama’s tongue over and over, and Kageyama babbles on, a little mindless, fists his hand in the back of Hinata’s hair hard enough to hurt.

“Gonna come,” he breathes, “fuck, can I come in your mouth?”

Hinata pulls back enough to breathe long and deep, pants air over the end of Kageyama’s weeping cock. He can feel the heavy heat of his lips, knows they’re red and swollen and wet, dripping with saliva and Kageyama’s seed.

“You look so good.” Kageyama is gasping, nudges Hinata’s hand away to fist at himself, pressing the head of his cock to Hinata’s open lips. “Please, _fuck_ , Hinata, can I—”

“—Yeah.”

Kageyama’s eyes scrunch shut. His chest is heaving, straining his shirt, all the little gems winking, frantic like tiny strobe lights under the glare of the overheads. He bites at his lip, sucks a shaky, stuttering breath through his nose and then he stills, trembles, and Hinata feels the warmth of him spill against his tongue, teeth, trickling at the back of his throat.

Kageyama jerks himself through with a shaking fist. Hinata lets him, braces his hands against Kageyama’s skate-clad feet and lets the salty substance sit on his tongue, drip over his lips.

Hinata doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do, now that Kageyama has slumped back. He’s breathing ragged, staring at Hinata’s mouth and he thinks it’s rude, probably, to spit it out, so instead he closes his lips and swallows.

It doesn’t settle well on his stomach at _all_. It’s not totally gross, just strange, a little foreign, but Kageyama is looking at him like it’s the best thing he’s seen in his whole entire life, and Hinata thinks the weird feeling in his gut is worth it, just for that.

Kageyama kisses him after.

It’s soft, sweet, not like the kisses before that were fuelled by frantic tension and a desperate kind of need. This kiss is calm and gentle, warm, the kind of kiss that makes Hinata’s chest do that _thing_ it does, the one when Kageyama is doing something especially mundane, except Hinata is beginning to think (a little too late, maybe) that that probably isn’t the reason for it at all.

“When did you get so _dirty_ , To-bi-o? Is it from reading all those magazines?” Hinata keeps his voice light, teasing, tries to mask the shake in it. Kageyama sits back, tucks himself into his slacks and cards his fingers through his hair. Hinata rests his cheek back on Kageyama’s thigh. He tucks a hand beneath the hem of Kageyama’s slacks, twirls the laces of his skates around his fingers.

Kageyama scoffs, and when Hinata rolls his eyes to look at him he is smirking.

“That’s...you’ve seen nothing yet,” he says, cheeks a little pink, and Hinata barely holds back a groan. Good, he thinks, dick aching in his jeans; more is what he is going to need.

Hinata pushes all the way up into Kageyama’s face, palms on his thighs, thumbs rubbing close to the line of his hips, and he smiles, grins into Kageyama’s puffy, misted breaths.

“When we get home,” he says, runs his nose up the length of Kageyama’s. Kageyama’s hands find purchase at his waist. “Will you show me?  

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: this document was titled 'small kagehina figure skating drabble' and look where we are. 
> 
> Anyway, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bk6qrBrqAqo) is the program I based Kageyama's last routine on, please go and watch it it's record breaking and gorgeous and tbh Yuzu is essentially how Kageyama skates in my mind.


End file.
